Night Crows
by ibuzoo
Summary: He remembers dying. But he remembers breathing too.


**o.**

Life is a useless tug-of-war and the thread of life stretches and stretches and stretches and somehow, someday, it splits in half.

* * *

**i.**

There's a hooded man in the darkness, grim and bony, red eyes under the hood.

„Kiss the ground I walk on," says the hooded man.

* * *

**ii.**

The battle was lost, the phenix had won, darkness had fallen and all the good guys danced on his grave, no proper ceremony, no last words spilled to honor his mind, to honor him.

There was no crown on his head that gave him eternal life.

_(he was a fool, a naive fool)_

* * *

**iii.**

He's Tom Marvolo Riddle, Prince and Heir of Slytherin and this is how it ends.

* * *

**vi.**

A shell sits around his body, porous like an eggshell and as white as marble, shelters him from the dusk, the shadows and he's the centre of their attention. There are pictures of his life, before, when he was a prince, the handsome face in public's eye, the top of the stairs off-limits.

The embodiment of lies behind closed doors.

He's used to crowds, swarms, worshippers and the ominous feeling of being watched, the spotlight that feeds his skin in warmth and glory. He's used to clandestine meetings, midnight signals, secret codes, and those few people he allowed himself to trust.

Trust never means equality, though.

* * *

**v.**

Bellatrix.

He remembers her.

The witch with the hair of a wild warrior, a mannequin clinging to Rodolphus' arm with a manic grin, stroking with her hand over the fabric of his cloak, power radiating through her hand and wand.

_(what would she do without him now?)_

_(what could she do without him now?)_

* * *

**vi.**

It's over.

The battle was lost, the phenix had won.

_(the prince was dead)_

* * *

**vii.**

Tom remembers.

He remembers how his body gave in, shoulders launching forward, legs followed, head dashing against the ground and there was mud in his hair, grass in dark locks.

He remembers the pain, the agony, the fever through his system, the torture before the light dies from his eyes, his blood running cold, freezing in seconds.

What he remembers the most, is the darkness that followed after.

* * *

**viii.**

Abraxas.

He remembers him too.

His second in command, dependable, loyal, charming and sometimes, rarely, it almost felt like family.

But Tom never wanted to be part of a family anyway.

* * *

**ix.**

_(when he was a child the man in the hood visited him in his dreams, sat by his side and told him he would be good enough, strong enough to sit in his place and wear his crown, rule his people, immortal one day, one day)_

* * *

**x.**

The hooded man wants him to kneel and kiss the ground but kneeling is humiliation and this would be his moment of hell, his punishment for straying out of lines, an opposition to the norms, lusting after what society denies him, lusting after more than a mortal life.

His body was a cage, a personal trap for a mind that was so far ahead of anybody else, greedy, selfish but so much brilliance in his veins, so much talent in his hands.

_(the blood on his fingers doesn't count, not in here)_

The hooded man asks him if he regrets anything but the answer is no.

In his shell, Tom stays silent.

* * *

**xi.**

„Kiss the ground I walk on," says the hooded man.

* * *

**xii.**

There is no magic in his veins here and now and it feels like stabbing himself through the heart with the knife the hooded man had given him, forced him to let go of the thread of life he had been holding onto, eager, solid and he should surrender and wave the white flag that he wanted to tear to pieces from the start.

_(he's always damned by the demons in his mind)_

* * *

**xiii.**

Then he met Hermione.

_(and the lights shone a little brighter)_

* * *

**xiv.**

Life matters in moments, moments when power rushed through his veins, moments when his soul split itself, moments when he took a life and the adrenaline in his system flooded his cells. Moments with her, the kind that permeated, invaded his consciousness and taught him to appreciate the sun's warmth even if he rather hates it. Moments when his world and restrictions and numbness just faded away as soon as his lips were pressed against hers.

_(mine,mine,mine)_

It's a rhythm in his head.

It doesn't stop.

* * *

**xv.**

_(there were marks on Hermione's body, red scars on her neck, her chest, her hips, for days, for weeks, the way he loved, he loved)_

Look how that turned out.

* * *

**xvi.**

No regrets, he told himself years ago.

No regrets, he tells the hooded man.

_(he lost himself to life, but no regrets)_

* * *

**xvii.**

He feels _(he's dead)_, he lives _(he's dead)_, he loves _(he's dead)_.

* * *

**xviii.**

„Kiss the ground I walk on," says the hooded man.

He kneels.

* * *

**xix.**

It all comes crashing down.

* * *

**xx.**

He bends down, face level with the ground, body quivering against his will and his pride tells him no, get up, don't you dare to bow to him, but Tom closes his eyes, shivers, lays both hands beside his head, front touching the floor and it is cold, the darkness, the shadows, coolness on his face, frost on his lips.

He kisses the ground, brushes the hard surface, brief, interminable, agonising and there's something stirring in his gut while red eyes burn in the back of his head.

_(what does it feel like?)_

It's done.

It's sealed.

Tom lifts his head and gets to his feet.

The words of the hooded man, the words of Salazar Slytherin falls to deaf ears.

* * *

**xxi.**

The shell around him shatters.

* * *

**xxii.**

Tom takes a breath and takes a step back, tries to regain his strength, steady feet and he holds on the thread of life, hands firm and gritted teeth while the thread presses against his flesh, his palms, digging red burnt marks in his skin.

He's breathing hard, air catching in his throat, lungs aflame, heart beating with the speed of light, drumming against his ribcage and the air is biting in his organs.

_(steady,steady)_

He's yelling, sounds on his lips, mouth open wide, protests, cries, rages, face distorted in a grotesque grimace.

He wants to be heard, he wants to be known.

But there's a lump in his throat, wetness at the outlines of his eyes from the blaze in his lungs, the fire on his skin, a flush from cold wind on his cheeks and he's on the verge of falling, sits on the grass with his hands anchored to the ground.

He feels naked.

He feels newborn.

* * *

**xxiii.**

He remembers dying.

But he remembers breathing too.

* * *

**xiv.**

Life is a useless tug-of-war and the thread of life stretches and stretches and stretches and somehow, someday, it splits in half.

Tom let's go off the thread.

He takes a breath.


End file.
